Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Herbie’s Diner
Herbie’s Diner
By L. Joseph Shosty
Copyright 2014 by L. Joseph Shosty
Cover Copyright 2014 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by L. Joseph Shosty and Untreed Reads Publishing
One of Us, Old Boy
Abattoir in the Aether (Space: 1889 & Beyond, Vol. 1.4)
http://www.untreedreads.com
To my stepmother, Mary, who took the Hardy Boys book out of my hands and replaced it with The Complete Sherlock Holmes. Challenge accepted.
To my father, Louis Joseph Shosty, Jr., who introduced me to the likes of such heroes as Charlie Chan, Boston Blackie, The Shadow, and The Saint. But more important than that, I dedicate this book to how he would slave over stories written in his head while working in grueling conditions during the week so he could tell me stories while I sat on his knee during my weekend visits, all so his melancholy boy wouldn’t feel so alone. I created Johnny Hardwood for you, Dad, long before I conceived of letting anyone else see him. Enjoy.
—L
Herbie’s Diner
L. Joseph Shosty
Herbie’s Diner was forty miles south of Sacramento on a stretch of road so lonely the only customers it got in the off-season were dust devils and oak trees. That didn’t mean it didn’t have its qualities. The honey-battered chicken wasn’t bad, and the coffee had been strained through a dishrag only once or twice before it made it into my cup. I probably should not have eaten as much as I had. My powder-blue Chevy was parked at the edge of the lot in case I needed a quick getaway, but I doubted I would be going anywhere quickly, except the john.
Herbie’s was a cramped joint consisting of a twenty-foot counter with nine stools affixed to the concrete floor with heavy steel bolts. The vinyl seat coverings were red, as was the countertop, a glossy enamel. Roughly six feet separated the counter from a row of six booths that ran the length of the joint, each giving a view out of plate glass windows. Six feet might sound like a lot of space, but when you have a packed house, that’s really barely enough room for two people to pass one another without someone having to turn to the side to squeeze by. Behind the counter was the kitchen, partitioned off and unknowable from where I sat, though I’d worked a grill a time or two in the past and could likely draw a map of it without having set foot inside.
At the far end of the room was a swinging door with a small, diamond-shaped window. Beyond the door was the aforementioned john, and next to it was a pay phone. I watched Mort Peters through the window as he spoke on the phone. He did more talking than listening, which told me plenty about to whom he was speaking. Occasionally he would stop, listen, then nod, and afterward start up again. He gestured as he made each point, the way someone who is reassuring another might. After a few minutes he hung up the phone and returned to his seat at the counter.
I sat in the booth closest to the door—again, in case I needed to make a quick exit. It afforded me a clear view of the diner. The only thing I couldn’t see clearly was the front door, which was just over my right shoulder, but I didn’t expect any trouble from that direction. I had my eye on Mort. He was the guy that had me prowling all over northern California, all the way to the Oregon state line and back again.
To know Mort Peters on paper was to expect a man like Peter Lorre: oily, smelling of cigarettes and clove oil, with a voice like a talking weasel, the kind of guy who would put a knife in your back then eat a sandwich in your kitchen afterward, explaining to your widow why killing you had been your fault, not his. To see him in the flesh was another matter. If not a Peter Lorre, I was at least expecting a man with sweaty armpits and a disheveled tie, eyes darting to and fro, and too much hair tonic holding together a coif that hadn’t been washed in days. Instead he was a very well put-together gee. He stood about six feet, with a build of a college quarterback. His neat gray suit had been recently pressed, and a dame could fix her hair in the mirror shine of his black shoes. When he wasn’t on the phone he had the air of someone who was not concerned about much. He read a two-day-old newspaper with casual interest, and he drank hot tea, not coffee. When he spoke to the day waitress, it was evident that he’d had voice training of some sort. Even if he’d never done professional work, at some point Mort Peters had fancied himself an actor.
The waitress came by with a pot of black coffee. She was a smallish woman, about forty, still had some of her looks left, but she had a hardness to her face. Money and bad men were the only things that left that much stone in a woman. I nudged my cup in her direction, and she served her purpose in life.
“You all set, honey?” she asked me.
“Yeah. Tell your cook to lay off the salt the next time he fries up a chicken.”
She jerked her head toward the door with the diamond window. “Head’s in there if you need it.”
“I’ll live. What’s a guy do for kicks around here?”
“Drive into Sacramento. It ain’t exactly Kicks Central Station up there, but it’s better than watching paint dry around here.”
“No motels, no gin joints?”
She made a face. “Sure. Just turn left at the nearest tree.”
“But people live around here.”
“Sure. Some. Me. Muncey. He’s the guy who salted your bird.”
“How about Herbie?”
“Herbie retired. He lives in Reseda with his daughter and her husband. Look, what’s this all about? You buying property or something?”
“Maybe. Could be I’m gonna be around for a while. A guy likes to know his prospects.”
“Honey, I hate to break it to you, but if you’re looking to live in this neck of the woods, your prospects ain’t none too good.”
I stole the name from the tag she wore over her left breast. “Arlene, don’t I know about it.”
She smiled. “Hey, you ain’t from around here, but I could swear I know you from someplace.”
“Been to L.A. in the last year or three?”
Arlene thought about it a second, then snapped her fingers. “You’re on that billboard!” she said.
Mort Peters looked up, and I stifled an urge to bolt. We made eye contact, and I smiled at him while replying to her, “Guilty as charged.”
“Hardwood, Smoller, and Tate. You’re one of those fancy detectives to the stars, right?”
Mort turned back to his tea, a bit too stiffly for my pleasure. Now he was eavesdropping, and you could see the tension building in his shoulders. His move wasn’t clear to him yet, but he was working it out. When he made his—if he made his—I had to be just as quick, if not quicker, with mine. Problem was, Muncey’s
fried chicken was working me something fierce. If I went to relieve myself, Mort Peters would be gone when I got back, and all the luck I’d had thus far in tracking him down would be wasted. That meant I had to do something to take the fire from under his feet. I shook my head. “No, I’m the guy on the billboard. I’m an actor they hired. Bill Crisp.”
“You’re not a detective.” Arlene’s tone said she liked me as a detective far more than she would as an actor. That, ultimately, had been my problem.
“Hate to burst your bubble.”
“Don’t make any sense to me. You look like a detective.”
“That’s why they hired me. I played a shamus on Inner Sanctum once or twice.”
“Inner Sanctum was a radio show. Nobody could see you on the radio.”
“Turns out I sound like one, too.”
“I don’t think we ever had anyone famous in here before.”
“You still haven’t.”
Mort Peter’s shoulders shook a little. My wisecrack did more for oiling his gears than it did in sending Arlene packing. Now she was really into her miniature Inquisition. “So what’re you doing up this way? You’re a long way from L.A.”
“Sacramento has a nice little repertory company. I’m thinking of doing some summer stock. L.A.’s too much of a cesspool. I need a stage to air my grievances.”
Arlene shook her head. “Wouldn’t know anything about any of that. I keep to myself out here.” That shook her loose, and she went into the back, hopefully to beat a little sense into Muncey for fixing such a wonderful bird only to salt it like it was going to be mummified later.
Mort Peters went back to his newspaper. I tried to gauge his state of mind by staring at the back of his head, but I got nothing of any use. My stomach gurgled, and I patted myself down for an effervescent, to no avail. My hand did fall onto a pack of Luckys, though, and I substituted one of them as a cure for what ailed me.
The sound of my lighter flipping shut roused Peters from his paper. He turned his head to look at me. “May I trouble you for a light?” he asked.
I held out my Zippo. “It’s all yours.”
Peters came to my table and produced a Charleston from a crinkled pack. This surprised me. With his natty dress, I’d half expected a cigarette case.
“Thanks,” he said, and blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with our waitress. You’re an actor?”
“Something of one, yeah.”
“I did a little acting myself, once. When I lived in New York, that is. But that was years ago.” He held out a manicured hand. “Wyatt Link,” he said. I took the hand and responded in kind.
This forced me into a role I wasn’t comfortable playing. To play the part he was expecting, I had to pretend interest. I made a gesture at the seat across from me. He thanked me and slid in. “Are you from New York?” I asked.
“Nobody is from New York,” he drawled. “Only a bunch of Italians and Jews. No, I’m from Vermont, originally. Did a little rep work there before I moved to New York. Wonderful place. Have you ever been?”
“No,” I lied. “I’ve lived on the West Coast my entire life.”
He nodded. “There are worse places to be from,” he said. “Now, I haven’t been to L.A. in some time, but I recognize your face, too. None of this billboard business, either. Where have I seen you?” I moved to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me. “Oh, come on, now. No need to be modest. It was that one with Joe Cotten in it, wasn’t it?”
“Never worked with him.”
“No?”
“Did a few Bob Steele westerns. I tend to get shot in the first reel.”
Peters nodded. “I don’t watch westerns, I’m afraid.”
“Good stuff. The good guy always wins.”
“Everyone is a good guy in his own mind,” Peters said.
“Yeah, but it’s society who has the ultimate say. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Peters looked away and took a drag from his cigarette. “Society doesn’t have all the facts,” he said finally. “Who are they to judge?”
“I’ll admit it’s a leaky raft, but it’s the best idea that’s come along yet. Find a better way to keep the human race going, and I’ll sign the petition. Until then, justice is justice.”
He smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that got beat up by the tougher smiles in grade school.
“I have friends who would agree with you, but I’m not so sure anymore.” He crushed out the remains of his cigarette and slid out of the seat. “Well, anyway. Thanks for the light.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He went back to his stool and resumed reading his newspaper. I wanted to kick myself in the teeth. Not smart, kid, not smart at all. I had just about spilled the beans to him right there with my brash talk of justice. If he was fishing, he’d just landed the twenty-five pounder. Unless he was a first-class rube, which I knew from his file he most certainly was not, then Peters was onto me. I kept both eyes on him after that.
Arlene came out of the back with a fresh pot of coffee and headed straight for my table. Her mouth was a hard line. Had she had words with Muncey, or had I said something to offend? She’d taken off like a shot when I’d mentioned theater work. I wondered if that had something to do with it. She filled my cup, and I thanked her.
Mort Peters stood up, and I nearly did a spit take. At first I thought he would throw in and leave. Instead, he pushed through the swinging door, but he didn’t stop at the pay phone the way I expected. He went into the john and pulled the door closed behind him.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked Arlene, but I was already sliding out of my seat.
“You don’t wanna stick around? I got an apple pie cooling.”
“I don’t know.” I looked around. “Maybe.”
“You should. I make the best pie in the state.”
“Lemme settle up, and then I’ll think about it.”
I tossed a few dollars onto the counter and told her to keep the change. She said nothing about her tip.
“Why don’t you go check on that pie, and I’m gonna run to my car for a bit. If I’m having a slice, I may as well grab a script I’ve been looking at. You can never know your lines too well, you know.”
She nodded and did as she was told, and I practically kicked the glass door open getting outside. Two cars were in the parking lot other than mine, a broken down Ford and a brand-new blue Pontiac. Unless Arlene or Muncey had come into a recent windfall, I could only assume the Pontiac belonged to Peters. His file said he drove a Chrysler, but he could have gotten a new one. I crouched behind the car and went into my left hip pocket. Right side for the brass knucks, left side for the switch knife. You could never be too safe, was my theory. I popped the blade and shoved it into the sidewall. The tire hissed and began to deflate. The knife went back into my pocket, and I was back inside the diner before anyone knew I was gone. If Mort Peters made his move now, he’d be doing it on foot or taking a good twenty minutes out to change the tire. Either way, I’d just created some breathing room for myself, which was good, considering the chicken was not to be denied. I sat down and lit another cigarette, smoked the hell out of it so it would look like I’d been at it for a bit, and then had some coffee. My body relaxed, despite my queasy stomach. A sense of satisfaction warmed my chest.
Arlene came out of the back, and just as the swinging door closed I caught a glimpse of Muncey watching me from inside the kitchen. He was a big guy, arms like a body builder, with a head that was clean and shiny. He stared straight at me as the door swung closed, like he was looking for me. I sipped at my coffee. Whatever I’d said to rile Arlene had riled Muncey as well. I smiled at him, still playing the fool. He wasn’t impressed. The door stopped flapping, and that was the last of Muncey.
“More coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Arlene filled my cup. I hoped she didn’t notice the sheen of sweat on my forehead, or the breathing I was fighting to get under
control. She made no mention of either, and I put my eyes back onto the doorway where I’d last seen Peters. He still wasn’t back from the john. Either he was having the same distress I was, or he was making his move. The Pontiac was not visible from where I sat, and I’d have to crane my neck to see it. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I didn’t want to be too obvious.
“You know who makes a good detective, is that Humphrey Bogart,” Arlene said. “He looks like a guy who peeks through windows and such.”
“The sun does a pretty good job of keeping the Earth warm, too.”
Arlene crossed her arms and gave me an arch look. “You’re a fresh young man, you know that? Muncey’s none too happy with your assessment of his bird, neither. Ever see The Big Sleep?”
“Of course. And The Maltese Falcon.”
“Ever play a detective in a movie?”
“No. Just on the radio.”
Her face pinched harder than before. My answers were not suiting her at all. “I just don’t understand why nobody would cast you as a detective,” she said. “You know who’s a good one?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Basil Rathbone?”
“Who’s that?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh, I don’t watch those limey movies. I can’t understand their accents. Boston Blackie. What’s his real name?”
“Chester Morris.”
“He’s a good one.”
“I wouldn’t say he looks like a detective.”
“Sure he does.”
“Well, if you mean the kind of guy that wears a suit and actually does detective work, I’d have to disagree. Boston Blackie is more of a thug who beats up the right guys.”
“Ever been in a fistfight?”
“A few. And I’ve lost most of them.”
“Well, you’re an actor.” She made the word sound like it had syphilis and a crippled leg.
“How about that pie?”
“It’s coming. Think the other guy might want some?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Maybe you should ask him.”
“He’ll be in there a while.”
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